


Cups of Tea and Occasional Spatial Proximity

by whirlingdervish



Series: Proximity [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-01
Updated: 2017-09-01
Packaged: 2018-12-22 08:43:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,514
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11963832
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whirlingdervish/pseuds/whirlingdervish
Summary: Sherlock wants to ask John to move back in to 221B Baker Street, but knows that a coat of new plaster won't fix everything.





	Cups of Tea and Occasional Spatial Proximity

**Author's Note:**

> Post season 4- 
> 
> My story, borrowed characters :)  
> Not Beta-ed, forgive my mistakes.

“You’re not getting your security deposit back, young man,” Mrs. Hudson scolds, hands on her hips, and a playful glint in her eye. He hugs her, and accepts a kiss on the cheek as he looks up the stairwell toward the remains of his flat. Mrs. Hudson has been staying with her sister for the last few weeks since the grenade decimated 221B. Remarkably, only minimal damage was done to her flat downstairs and thankfully she hadn’t been injured.

                Mycroft had hired a crew to help clean and repair the place, but Sherlock doesn’t trust them to set things back the way they ought to be, but he accepts their help for most of the grunt work and structural repairs. He’s never bothered to learn about construction, but Sherlock rolls up his shirt sleeves to help install the new dry wall, and even though the task is menial, he finds he doesn’t mind. There is something cathartic about being able to physically repair something. So engrossed in his task, he doesn’t notice the front door downstairs open and close or the steady, solid footsteps up the seventeen stairs. When he turns, flakes of plaster in his hair and looking decidedly rumpled, he sees John Watson standing quietly in the doorway, a few rolls of wallpaper in the crook of his elbow.

                “Mrs. Hudson had these from the last reno,” He explains, “Thought you might want it.”

                Sherlock crosses to him, stepping over the detritus of home improvement, and takes the rolls from him.

                “Thank you.”

                “Need any help?” John asks, arms now empty he doesn’t seem to know what to do with his hands and so sticks them in his jeans pockets.

                “Always,” Sherlock says, and then offers what feels more like a shy smile that the self-possessed smirk he had intended. John’s quickly averted gaze confirms it. Sherlock turns back to his work, hoping the moment will pass quickly.

                John, to his credit, gets right to work, unbuttoning his cuffs and rolling his sleeves. The silence is companionable as John sifts through the rubble, rescuing small mementos that the hired crew had deemed garbage. Sherlock loves him for it; for recognizing worth where no-one else would. It is the hallmark of their entire friendship. John pauses for a moments, rolling a glass insulator cup in his hands and examining the aqua glass contemplatively. He is trying to formulate how to say something, Sherlock can tell by the way his right eyebrow pulls down and way he is biting the inside of his cheek. But the words don’t come, and John places the blue dome down in a pile of things he’s saving.

                Sherlock sometimes pretends the words that John swallows were the words he would have like them to be, but he knows better. Mycroft was right about so many things, Sherlock mused, watching John from the corner of his eye as he mixes spackle. Sentiment is a tremendous weakness. Hadn’t Mycroft proven that at Sherrinford? Sherlock had never once considered aiming the gun at John, had been willing to kill his own blood if he hadn’t been able to think his way out of it. But, looking at John now, in the soft rosy glow of the late afternoon sun streaming through new windows, Sherlock knows that he would do it again in a heartbeat.

                John catches him staring and offers a crooked, if not uncomfortable smile.

                “Did your mind palace need tidying up too?” John asks with a small huff of laughter.

                Sherlock snaps out of his reverie.

                “I’m sorry?”

                “I should be going,” John admits, “I need to pick Rosie up at the nursery.”

                The admission leaves Sherlock bereft, even though it doesn’t surprise him, and even though he should be used to watching John leave the flat, it still stings. John belongs in 221B- from the moment John surprised Sherlock by actually showing up to look at the place, Sherlock knew it.  

                “Of course,” he replies in what he hopes sound aloof, “Thanks for…”

                “Ya,” John says, rocking back on his heels and pursing his lips in a moue that suggests he’s still gnawing on his unshared thoughts like an old dog with a bone. “Well,” he sighs, puffing out a breath, “See you tomorrow.”

                Tomorrow.

                John is already to the door by the time Sherlock has finished processing.

 

                Over the next few weeks, John comes by like clockwork and together they reassemble the flat and in part, Sherlock hopes, their lives. The conversations begin to flow easily and there is laughter and companionably arguments. Sherlock’s phone goes unanswered while they work, and he doesn’t take any cases. Mycroft’s crew finishes the structural repairs and Mrs. Hudson moves back in downstairs, and when John has to take a double shift, Sherlock finishes the final touches to the flat, sliding John’s chair in front of the fire place next to his own.

                Sherlock looks around 221B and sees that it isn’t exactly the same. Things are slightly off, even the smile on the wall is slightly askew. It’s ok though, Sherlock decides. When something is broken it can never go back exactly the same way.

 

An hour later, Sherlock texts to invite John over and finds himself feeling nervous. He wants to ask John to move back in but knows that a coat of new plaster won’t fix everything. Sherlock showers and dresses with particular care which makes him feel adolescent and foolish, but foregoes cologne.He convinces Mrs. Hudson to make those biscuits John likes and she brings them up on a tray with some hot tea. He’s estimated the approximate time John will arrive but as the seconds tick closer, Sherlock worries if perhaps he has miscalculated because of sentiment.

 At last, John arrives.

He hears him exchange pleasantries with Mrs. Hudson down stairs, and Sherlock worries about where he should stand, or should he sit? His fingers itch to grab his violin, it had always been a safe place to hide, but too late, John was already climbing the stairs. In the end, Sherlock stands by the mantle examining his stack of mail as John walks into the room.

John mutters what Sherlock assumes is an expletive under his breath, as he paces across the sitting room, gazing around at all the work that had been done. “It’s just like it was in our heyday,” John breaths in and looks around, “down to the detail”

                “Well,” Sherlock says, “It is missing a few things…”

                He cannot help the pointed look he gives John, the searching eyes. John examines his shoes and clears his throat. Not good signs. Sherlock wants to back pedal but knows it’s too late- he’s laid out his hand. He wants John to move back in. He’s sure his expression is naked need. John refuses to meet his eyes.

                “Sherlock,” John placates, and Sherlock feels his pulse quicken and his stomach drops.

                “It’s closer to your clinic,” Sherlock states, and John opens his mouth to protest, but Sherlock presses on, “Mrs. Hudson can watch Watson while you’re at work so you’d be saving money. No more experiments in the kitchen,” he blurts. John looks sad. This is a bad sign the only thing worse than being on the receiving end of John’s fury was being pitied by him. Sherlock fumbles for words, trying valiantly to appeal to John’s logic. “I know you’ve got Rosie to worry about now.”

                “It’s not that,” John starts and then sighs, “I’m not-“

                “I know!” Sherlock says at the same time as John finishes with

                “…ready,”

                Oh. Not the standard argument then, Sherlock is surprised. Not gay. Was there a person left in London who wasn’t crystal clear about John’s preferences? Not being ready though, Sherlock didn’t know what to make of that.

                “I see.” He didn’t.

                There is a tense moment of silence where John rocks back on his heels and holds his breath, and Sherlock bites nervously on the inside of his cheek.

                “Well,” John huffs out his held breath, “Have you taken any new cases?”

                “No.” Sherlock answers, and doesn’t feel much like elaborating, and the awkward silence resumes. Why were the two of them so bad at this? Sherlock abhors small talk, he’d rather have a fork in his eye than stand here dithering.

                “Ah,” John’s witty retort.

                “Do you want some Tea?”

                “I’d love some, yeah.”

At least with a steaming mug in hand they’d have something other than their shoes to look at.

 They move to their chairs and Sherlock carefully pours the tea. He is not a religious man, but this is an act of reverence. He hands John the cup, careful to avoid touching his hand.They sit and quietly sip and for the first time since John arrived, Sherlock begin to feel the tension easing. So they didn’t do small talk. Maybe they didn’t need to. Maybe they could have this, cups of tea by the fireplace and occasional spatial proximity and it would be enough. It was enough. It was more than enough, Sherlock reasoned, it had to be


End file.
